Category Future

Redacted

freyathewriter 8 Comments

It’s beginning to feel as if life has always been this way. Most days, I forget the months and years of Before. We took all that for granted. We complained about endless summer holiday boredom. What I wouldn’t give to be bored, right now.

Water needs to be collected from the standpipe two streets away. Little Sarah has taken on that thankless task, balancing a container on her head and carrying it ‘like the African ladies’, so she tells me. She thinks it’s fun.

Davina deals with our washing. She found the twin tub in the shed, got Lance to drag it out for her. Thank goodness it still had the mangle attached. We turn the rollers by hand and squeeze the water out of our clothes. Nothing is really clean, but we manage a sight better than most. The kids down the road – the two Underwood boys and a couple of other strays – are filthy and stink to high heaven. They make me feel sick. I’m not sorry for them.

I’m glad we hadn’t moved to the countryside. What about the farm animals, broken loose and roaming half-feral and starving across the overgrown fields? How would I know what was safe to eat? At least we can take tins from the warehouses by the docks and know what’s inside. Lance finds our food – he’s quick, strong and knows all the shortcuts, away from the empty main streets, away from the danger.

They had said we should leave, that it wouldn’t be safe in the city. But we’ll be OK for a bit, at least until the next Collection. And we know the hiding places – They don’t.

“Lucy, Lucy.”

Sarah is tugging on my sleeve.

“Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”

“When’s Daddy and Mummy coming back?”

My heart creases. The pain is as sharp and overwhelming as ever. She hasn’t forgotten them either. I had hoped she would be saved from that, at least.

“Never, honey. I’m sorry.”

She hugs me, hard, locking her fingers together behind my back, squeezing the breath out of me. “And how long is never?”

Too long.

On Top of the World – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

freyathewriter 20 Comments

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?

18-07-july-28th-2013

– On Top of the World –

I stand on the swaying platform. The wind is scratching at my cheeks, clawing tears from my eyes. For a second, I remember a hiking trip in the Cambrian mountains…

My heart jumps in my chest with fear and laughter as I slip-slide backwards, my feet losing their grip on the scree skittering far below. The echoes of our joy career all around as you and I collapse safely at the top, lungs burning, chests heaving with the effort. Life is rainbow-hued.

Now, everything is fear. I inch forward to the edge of the platform, scanning the seas as they boil below. I see the top of The Shard cutting through the oily waves, and the summit of Heron Tower in the distance. London is gone. You are lost to me, flotsam and jetsam – somewhere.

I steel myself, zip up my diving gear, check my oxygen tanks and mask. The time has come.

*****

For non-Londoners, and non-Brits, here is information on The Shard and Heron Tower…

*****

Crude – Trifecta Week 84

freyathewriter 18 Comments

Below is my offering for week 84′s challenge word, which is ‘crude’. As you will see from the relevant blog post, the challenge is to write between 33 and 333 words of fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose, based on the 3rd definition from the Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary.  This week the 3rd definition of ‘crude’ is:

3.marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity <a crude stereotype>

Here’s my offering below – I hope you like it! Please check here for the other entries!

*****

– Oversold –

“Are we absolutely certain that this is the best that they can offer? The rumours promised so much more.”

“I agree. The hype has really oversold… this…”

The two experts gaze at the artefacts in front of them. The archaeologist reminisces on the months of back-breaking work invested by him, not to mention his team. The artist attempts to bury the wild hopes and dreams he had harboured for aeons, all the while hearing his wife’s warning ringing in his ears: “Don’t get your hopes up, you’ll only be disappointed!”

“I tell you one thing, though,” he mutters to his colleague. “They knew how to market themselves. Talk about oversold!”

“Hmm.” The archaeologist straightens his shoulders, releasing pent up tension – a combination of the gathering excitement that had been building for what felt like a lifetime, and the remnants of months of travelling in cramped quarters. “Remember, their methods of communication were crude at best. No finesse, back then.”

“Much like their art, so it seems.”

The colleagues sigh in unison. The artist shakes his head. “We might as well go. There’s nothing for us here.”

“Yes. This place is of no use to us. Poor air, poor archaeology, poor art.”

“I’d better record the names of the pieces, for our files,” said the artist, making brief notes in his book. “I wonder who this woman was, ‘La Gioconda’?”

“No idea. Nor do I care. Her beauty is as sub-standard as their ‘art’.”

The colleagues pick up their tools, making their way back to their vehicle, now ready for launch. The return to Imakon Zandar II was going to be long and despondent. Planet Earth had been terribly, terribly disappointing.

Trifecta